Sarah looked over at Conrad and motioned for him to walk over to her. “What did you find?” he asked.
“Glitter,” Sarah explained and pointed at the glitter on the tag.
“Sarah saw glitter in the snowballs thrown at the back door, on the windshield of her Subaru, and on the back of her coat,” Amanda explained, hoping to sound all cop-like.
“I need to see the leather jacket you took off the snowman,” Sarah told Conrad in an urgent voice and handed him the jacket she was holding.
“The jacket is in my office back at the police station,” Conrad replied, studying the small traces of glitter on the tag of the leather jacket. “We might be able to pull matching prints. Good work, Detective.”
“No,” Sarah said, dodging the compliment, “the stalker made a mistake, that's all. If... it was a mistake, that is?”
“What do you mean?” Conrad asked.
Before responding, Sarah paused and allowed the warm environment of the department store to soothe her. She enjoyed the feeling of department stores and was especially fond of old department stores. Of course, she liked to shop, but it was the joy of being in a comforting place that mattered. Even though O'Mally's was only a medium-sized store sitting on the edge of a small Alaskan town, Sarah found it to be friendly and welcoming.
Finally, she took a deep breath and answered Conrad’s question. “In the series I'm writing, the killer leaves false clues to confuse his victim and make the police chase their own tails.”
Amanda nearly slapped her own head. “And you think—”
“It's possible... but then again, I'm not so sure,” Sarah interrupted. “We need to run prints off this jacket and the jacket in your office, Detective Spencer, and see what develops.”
Conrad began to reply when he spotted a young, chubby, black-haired girl watching him from behind a rack of sweaters. “Young lady?” he called out.
The girl stiffened and looked around. She was wearing a light green work vest with a name tag attached to it. Thinking fast, she tried to pretend to be an employee working in the clothing department. “I was just wondering if you needed any help?” she asked Conrad in a friendly but nervous voice.
Amanda recognized the girl first. “Rhonda Nettles, you were eavesdropping,” she scolded.
“No... honest... I...” Rhonda struggled to defend herself. Then, unable to continue, she threw her eyes down at her shoes. “Okay... you caught me. I was eavesdropping.”
“Why?” Sarah asked.
Rhonda tried to look up at Sarah. Sarah was so beautiful and she was so chubby and drab—just a chubby teenager working a dead-end job. “I work as a cashier and a stock girl here,” she whispered. “If Mr. O'Mally catches me, he'll fire me.”
“It's okay,” Sarah assured her. “Mr. O'Mally is nowhere in sight.”
Rhonda looked into Sarah's strong eyes, unaware of the pain the woman was holding inside of her heart. “I put the jackets out myself,” she whispered. “I helped unload the biweekly shipment when it arrived four days ago.”
Conrad rubbed his chin. Something in Rhonda's voice made him take notice. “How many leather jackets were there total?” he asked.
“Four large, four medium, and four small,” Rhonda answered, not daring to look Conrad in his eyes. “Mr. O'Mally ordered them because the new store in Fairbanks is selling them, but as you can see, the jackets aren't really moving. I only sold three so far.”
“Three?” Sarah gasped. Spinning herself around, she began digging through the leather jackets. “Four large... here are the four mediums... and... and... the smalls are all missing except for the one we have.” Turning around, she focused on Rhonda. With her heart racing wildly, she forced herself to take a deep breath and attempted to calm down. “You sold the jackets?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rhonda answered in a meek voice.
“To who?” Sarah asked very carefully. “Can you describe what the person looked like?”
“Some girl, maybe my age or a little older. I never saw her before in my life. But what I did notice was how much glitter nail polish she was wearing,” Rhonda answered.
Amanda began to speak, but Sarah quickly shook her head at her. “Go on,” she urged Rhonda.
“Well,” Rhonda said, looking around for Mr. O'Mally, “she was wearing a pink winter cap... a pink coat... white ski pants... and black boots. She was very pretty. I admired how stylish she looked. And... oh yeah... she had a red ponytail.”
“Anything else?” Conrad asked in a gentle tone.
“Well,” Rhonda said, thinking, “oh, she had a funny accent. It was obvious she wasn't from here. She talked... kinda like you,” Rhonda finished and pointed at Conrad.
Conrad glanced up at the dummy cameras attached to certain areas of the ceiling. “Being cheap doesn't pay,” he said in a frustrated voice.
“Did this girl say anything to you?” Sarah asked Rhonda.
“Oh, sure,” Rhonda said. “We talked while I rang up her purchase... chit-chat talk, mostly. She seemed super friendly. She even complimented my new nose ring... but I think it's kinda dorky. But this guy I like thinks nose rings are cool, you know.”
Sarah stepped forward and put a hand on Rhonda's shoulder. “What else did you two talk about? Please, it's very important.”
Rhonda looked at Sarah, then at Amanda, and finally at Conrad. “Ms. Garland, I only work here part-time. My family isn't exactly rich. I need the money I earn here. I don’t want to get in trouble with O’Mally.”
Sarah took her hand off Rhonda's shoulder. She opened her pocketbook and pulled out her purse. “Here,” she said, popping open her green wallet and pulling out a wad of twenty dollar bills, “this is five hundred dollars. I'm hiring you to talk to me for a few minutes.”
Rhonda stared at the money. “I... yeah, hey, sure,” she said, suddenly beaming like a ray of sunshine.
“What did the girl say to you?”
“Let me think... we talked about the weather... nail polish because I complimented her fingernails... clothes... boys, of course... and that was about it,” Rhonda told Sarah.
“Did she buy anything other than the jackets?” Sarah asked in a strained voice.
“Just one of those creepy mystery books... the one written by some lady named Milly Stevens. My mother loves her work,” Rhonda explained. “And ... oh yeah, she bought a small crowbar? Strange.”
“Was anyone with her?” Sarah asked, glancing at Conrad. Conrad nodded.
“No, ma’am.”
“By chance, did you see what she was driving?” Sarah asked.
“Well...” Rhonda said, looking down at her feet again, “I did kinda look out into the parking lot when she left. I thought for sure a girl like her might be driving a BMW or Porsche, you know. But... well, she didn't get into any kind of car. She just kinda walked away and headed back toward town. It was snowing pretty good, too. I remember thinking she was going to freeze.”
Sarah pushed the wad of twenty dollar bills into Rhonda's hand. “Thanks, Rhonda. You've been a great help. Now do me a favor, ditch the nose ring and be yourself. The right guy will come along and love you for who you are, not what you like.”
“You sound like my mother,” Rhonda sighed. “I’d better get back up front.”
Conrad waited until Rhonda walked away before speaking. “Detective Garland, what're your thoughts?” he asked.
“A very deranged fan,” Sarah replied. “Let's run the jackets and see what we come up with. Maybe we'll match prints?”
“You had no doubt that the suspect would be a woman all along.” Conrad pointed out.
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “The damage to the window sill in my writing room seemed to have been made by someone who wasn't familiar with a crowbar. From the damage, it was clear the person who broke into my home was an amateur.”
“Maybe an amateur with a crowbar,” Conrad mentioned. “She could be very skilled with a weapon.”
Amanda couldn't believe some mentally abnormal teenage girl had
scared the wits out of her. And why were Sarah and Conrad talking as if they were still concerned? “All of this fright over a silly teenage girl?” she asked and then rolled her eyes. “Blimey, I thought the person was a killer bear. Sarah and I were running for our lives this morning... and from what? A silly twit! Blimey.”
“Never underestimate a killer,” Sarah warned Amanda. “Sometimes the people who you think are the least of threats turn out to be the deadliest of all. This girl is still a threat, and I will treat her as one.”
“A silly teenage twit?” Amanda asked, rolling her eyes again.
“A silly teenage girl in Minnesota now sits in prison,” Conrad told Amanda. “People call her the 'Closet Killer'.”
Sarah held up five fingers. “Five boyfriends dead. Five boys who thought they were dating a silly twit. Never underestimate a killer,” she emphasized.
Amanda swallowed. “Five?”
“Five,” Sarah said and walked away. “You coming, partner?”
“Uh... sure,” Amanda said and hurried after Sarah.
Conrad drew in a deep breath and followed behind Amanda. “Shouldn't be too hard tracking down a silly twit,” he whispered in a worried voice.
Outside, the snow continued to fall. Back at Sarah's cabin, two hideous snowmen stood on the front lawn, chewing peppermint candy canes, staring at the window attached to Sarah's writing room. Behind the cabin, a shadowy figure walked back to a pair of skis and began singing to herself. “Oh, the weather outside is frightful... but the fire is so delightful... and since we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”
Chapter Eleven
Sarah pulled back the cobalt blue curtain covering the window in Conrad's office. Night was falling. “The storm is getting worse,” she said, staring at heavily falling snow being thrown in every direction imaginable by angry, icy, winds.
Conrad sat at his desk with his right leg tossed over the corner edge. He picked up a black pen and began tapping it on his right knee cap. “I never thought I would see the day,” he replied.
Sarah folded her arms together. “We extracted good prints from the jackets, even if we were forced to use the old-fashioned method.”
“At least this station has a fax machine,” Conrad said in a frustrated voice. “Now all we can do is sit tight and wait while the prints are being examined.”
Sarah continued to stare out into the snow. Her mind was struggling to make sense of the case. Hearing her cell phone ring from inside of her purse, she let go of the curtains and walked over to Conrad's desk. “This call might be important,” she told Conrad and fished out her phone. “It's Peter,” she said in a grateful voice and answered the call. “Hey Pete, what's the news?”
Peter sat in his old car outside of a closed-down seaside hotdog stand, looking out at calm waves brushing up against an empty beach. “I did some checking, Cat. Your list of foes are all still securely behind bars, except for a woman named Veronica Wilson.”
“Veronica Wilson... doesn't ring a bell,” Sarah said. She sat down in the cushioned gray chair in front of Conrad's desk.
“I didn't think it would. You arrested Veronica Wilson when you were a rookie cop, fresh out of the Academy,” Peter answered. Looking down into the passenger's seat, he studied a warm box of pizza. “Veronica Wilson was arrested for attempted murder.”
“Pete, we're talking years ago,” Sarah said, desperately trying to think back. “Help me out here, okay?”
“She was sentenced to twenty years in prison, Cat. She was released six months ago. But...”
“But what?” Sarah pressed as the icy winds outside the police station smashed into the office window with furious fists.
Peter grabbed a slice of cheese pizza and took a bite. “The woman turned up dead on the same beach I'm looking at now. The death was ruled a suicide.”
Sarah sat silently for a minute as her mind attempted to forge a connection between Veronica Wilson and the case in Alaska. “Did she have a daughter?”
Conrad stopped tapping the pen against his knee and perked up his ears. “Put the call on speakerphone,” he whispered.
Sarah nodded and hit the speakerphone button. “Pete, I have Detective Spencer with me. I have you on speakerphone now, is that okay?”
“Fine with me,” Peter answered, chewing his pizza. His eyes drifted past the closed hotdog stand and focused on the deserted beach. “I'm wondering why a woman fresh out of prison would drown herself?”
“Did Veronica Wilson have a daughter, Pete?” Sarah asked again.
“Veronica birthed a baby girl before she was hauled away in handcuffs,” Peter told Sarah. “Brad Wilson, the husband and intended victim, took full custody of the baby and moved away to New York.”
Conrad grabbed a pen and pad of paper and began taking down notes. “What was the name of the baby?” Sarah asked.
“Kaley Wilson,” Peter answered. “I ran a check on her.” He paused and finished off his pizza. “Where's my cigar?”
“Pete, please,” Sarah begged.
“Cigar first,” Peter fussed. Leaning over, he snatched open the glove compartment and saw a half-smoked cigar. “Ah, there you are,” he said and grabbed it. “Now, where were we?”
“You ran a check, Kaley Wilson,” Sarah said and rolled her eyes. She had nearly forgotten how stubborn Peter could be unless he had a cigar in his mouth.
“Kaley Wilson,” Peter said, now searching for a pack of matches, “is nineteen years old. She currently resides in Los Angeles and works as a fashion model. Pretty young girl, but nothing special, you know. She models clothes for her old man, who owns make-up lines, nail polish lines, all that girly stuff, and a clothing line, too.” Peter spotted a box of matches sitting on the dashboard and grabbed them. “The newest line Kaley's old man is pushing is stuff that deals with glitter... glittery clothes, make-up, nail polish, hair spray, the works…. plain dumb to me.”
Sarah looked at Conrad. “Pete, remind me to give you a big kiss someday,” she said. “You're my hero.”
“Hero?” Peter repeated, lighting his cigar. “Listen, Cat, you ditched me and ran off with the polar bears. It took me years to train you and form you into the detective you are today, and how do you thank me?”
“Pete, I—”
“Yeah, yeah, save it for the Eskimos,” Peter complained and puffed on his cigar. “Listen, I think we have a homicide and not a suicide on our hands.”
“It could be,” Sarah agreed. “Where is Brad Wilson? Did he relocate back to Los Angeles with his daughter?”
“Nah, the guy is still in New York.”
Sarah bit down on her lower lip. “Can you check and see if Kaley or Brad Wilson ever visited Veronica Wilson while she was in prison?”
“Already did,” Peter said. “Kaley began visiting her mother in prison when she moved out to Los Angeles. Brad kept his distance.”
“I see,” Sarah said. “Did Veronica have any other visitors, other than her daughter?”
“Not a single one,” Peter replied in a voice that almost seemed sad. “I checked the woman's medical records. Veronica suffered from manic depression. Prison life made her condition worse. We're talking about fights, trips to solitary, attempted suicides, the works. Lady was on some serious medication, too.”
“And you think whoever killed Veronica used her mental state to cover up the murder, right?”
“Bingo,” Peter said and then grew silent. As he stared down at the beach, he knew something horrible had happened, and its horrible effects were still taking place.
Something in Peter's voice was bugging Sarah. “Pete, what are you hiding from me? You're telling me the ingredients to the cake, but you're leaving off the cherry. What is it?”
“Cat...” Peter began to speak and then grew silent again. Debating on whether to release the absolute truth to Sarah or not, he took a puff on his cigar. “Cat, Veronica Wilson blamed you for ruining her life. Your name was carved into the walls of her prison cell... n
asty letters addressed to you were found... I'm sure you get the picture.”
“I get the picture,” Sarah sighed. “The picture is becoming all too clear. There are a few missing pieces, but I'm sure I'll kick them out from under my desk soon enough.”
“So, what's going on on your end? I want straight answers, are we clear? If you try to fire blanks at me I'll hang up,” Peter warned.
Sarah focused on Conrad's face. Her eyes told the detective that she felt she had to confess the truth to her old friend. Conrad bit down on his lower lip and hesitantly nodded. “Go ahead,” his eyes told Sarah. She drew in a deep breath, eased her mind into a dark room and closed the door. “When you stand in darkness, Pete, there's always a scream waiting to capture you.”
“I'm listening,” Peter said.
“Yesterday I found a snowman in my yard... wearing a leather jacket.” Sarah slowly explained what she had been experiencing to Peter, who listened with skilled ears. Sarah finished with the leather jackets. “Detective Spencer and I managed to pull some prints. We're waiting for the results.”
Peter chewed on his cigar. “Okay, it appears that Kaley Wilson may be the skunk in the woods.”
“Kaley Wilson may be seeking revenge for her mother,” Sarah said. “It's possible she broke into my writing room without my knowing, looking for ways to get revenge, and that's how she came across my book.”
Conrad considered Sarah's suggestion. Remaining quiet, he stood up and walked to the office window, pulled back the curtains, and looked out into the storm.
“She needed an edge on you,” Peter replied, “and your book gave her the edge.”
“I know,” Sarah said miserably. “Kaley Wilson can kill me the way the Snowman Killer from Frostworth kills his victims, and then escape into the snow without anyone knowing. If it wasn't for the glitter...”
“The glitter,” Peter agreed. “I'm faxing you a photo of Kaley Wilson. Take the photo to the store clerk tomorrow and get a certified match.”
“You got it, Pete,” Sarah promised. “And hey, thanks for all of your help. I can't put into words how much... I miss you.”
The Snowman Killer Page 6